


Cottonmouth

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, I stay writing stuff that no one wants to read including me lol., Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Somewhere along the meandering paths of the Grand Line, Law and Hawkins have developed something of a repertoire.Law's done harder things for a trip before.
Relationships: Basil Hawkins & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Homoerotic but not really romantic.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Cottonmouth

**Author's Note:**

> The Grand Line's two most theatrical motif-loving bitches get high and Law continues to be mentally ill!

_ Grudgedorf  _ is impeccable, every inch of her interior tuned to the perfect ambiance, even the haphazard loops of rope hanging from the comically large nails that form the rail of the ship seeming artful in their lopsidedness. The interior is lit low, light seeming to spread and pool from beneath the floor in warm circles, striking up the walls in evenly spaced arcs, and the glow of it catches the leather of Law’s boots with a white rim as he walks--slow, deliberate--down the hall in the belly of the ship. His hat is tipped low when he steps into Hawkins’ quarters.

Hawkins is on his side, half leaning against a dark ottoman, head propped up on a lazy arm, which in turn rests on a velvet cushion, one leg crossed over the other and stretching long and pale over the floor. His shirt is buttoned low and hanging loose to splay luxurious over unmarred thighs, and he blinks up at him from the floor, unamused. Law resists the urge to sigh in annoyance, sitting down cross-legged on the cushion the other rookie had evidently set up for him.

“You knew I was coming and you couldn’t get dressed?” Law scoffs, giving a little yank to his collar.

“And you come despite knowing I have nothing for you,” There is no self-satisfied grin, hardly a flicker of the eyes, just spindly fingers reaching over himself lazily to grind something pine green and  _ wet _ -smelling into a stone dish he’s got cradled where his abdomen bends. He nods, gesturing to a nightstand made of intricately wrought iron, curling and meandering almost nonsensically as it shoots upwards from Hawkins’ floor like an unsightly growth. There’s a clay mug resting on the glass top, and Law  _ shambles  _ it into his hands with little protest.

“Fortune telling is more your suit,” the liquid inside is thick and an off-yellow, swimming and churning slowly, as if being heated by a low flame. As the sludge turns in on itself in thick cords and spirals, flecks of dark green come to light. Law’s nose twitches in disgust. 

When his gaze lifts, Hawkins has a wick in his hand, long and twining gentle around his forefinger where it points lazily to Law. 

“Cut it, if you would,” Hawkins says. Law lifts Kikoku from his lap, setting the mug to his side, just barely unsheathing her so the blade glints in the light in the gap in the black scabbard. A single flick of the wrist and a length of twine falls neatly in Law’s lap. He recoils, unsure of why. 

“How did it fall?” Hawkins asks, withdrawing the outstretched hand, gathering the cup as he does. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Law mutters, re-sheathing his nodachi and brushing it out of his lap with a theatrical flourish of the back of his palm before he can manage to look. (His eyes are sharp and his memory, at times, regrettably even more so. It had landed in a spiral, something winding past him and sucking on his heels in dreams for the weeks to come. )

Hawkins’ hand is fast and elegant as he lays the freshly cut twine in the bowl, lining the edge and letting one end of it hang out straight, before adjusting it to a neat forty five degree angle. The liquid pours into the shallow dish with a couple heady  _ glug _ s, and Law’s stomach twists itself another couple knots just for the sake of. It hisses, rising black smoke and the scent of rot heavy in Law’s lungs and creeping in past his ears to bake his brain. 

He grips Kikoku tight to resist clamping his hands over his ears, his nose, mouth, anything. She’s laughing at him, he thinks, her darling wail, but he’s grateful for her company.

“I didn’t realize your sword talked.” Hawkins is staring up at Law, words pressed out at an even staccato and controlled. The smoke begins to thin out, black-to-grey-to-milky white, and finally translucent and wispy like the trailing end of a cigarette. Beyond the veil of smoke, bowl still sheltered in Hawkins’ soft underbelly, Law watches his pupils dilate real slow. His pulse ratchets up a notch; Hawkins watches too, his stare deliberately placed to follow the slight motion of Law’s lip and jaw, mouthing half-words and quivering. 

Law’s own laughter surprises him, “She wails.” The noise of it is too loud for him, chest heaving and eyes lidded, hands clenching and unclenching to frame the crosses of the scabbard between his middle and forefingers.  _ What the Hell did Hawkins-ya put in that? _

“Yes...  _ Kikoku _ ,” Hawkins says, swiveling his head on his wrist to look away. His cheeks puff for a second before his hands can come up to clamp over his mouth, the edge of a haughty laugh just barely slipping from beneath the net of his fingers. 

There’s a steady light rising behind Hawkins’ head, threading past his ear and into his hair. Law blinks hard, expecting it to zip around and disturb the neatly gathered locks. It weaves slow and bright instead, everything about Hawkins so pale and light, the color of straw and cream. The man seems uncomfortable with the weight of the golden gaze that’s settled on him and a purr of something sadistically pleased at that elbows into the paranoia settling in Law’s stomach.

Hawkins makes to shift, unfold his legs which have lain static for the entire duration of their meeting, pure marble, but Law’s inked hand shoots out to catch him by the ankle. His eyes widen and he stiffens, a rigor to match his corpse-like complexion. Ha. Ha. At least he’s still warm to the touch. Law shudders. There’s the whisper of a breath, half a word in his ears. 

“Hawkins-ya,” his heart thudding in his ears is louder than his speech, core twining and spinning into meandering knots. Hawkins lends him a lifting of his eyelids, the flare of surprise, and a deep intake of breath through his nose.  _ How did this happen?! _

“What was in that?” he hisses, and Hawkins tries to jerk his leg back, slow, even though Law’s burying nails deep in his calf hard enough to draw blood to run brilliant rivulets down the ridge of his ankle. He leans over him, bared teeth, the slink of a cornered big cat, jittery and desperate. 

Hawkins’ eyes trace a vague shape swimming over Law’s head before he tips his head back, laughing. It’s a quiet sound, gutless and breathy. He upsets the bowl, dried paste gone brown and chalky clattering out in a hardened disc onto the wooden floorboards, none of the mysterious churning and swimming flecks of color. Law’s eyes water. 

* * *

Hawkins’ neck is dark and mottled the next day when he traces alabaster fingers up the column of his throat. 

_ Law, pupils narrowed to pinpricks and shaking around their centers despite the drug working through his system, hands clamped snug up under Hawkins’ chin, “What the hell, what the hell.” A hard sniffle, eyes shining with a thin film of liquid. _

_ Hawkins, biting his lip in discomfort and lifting to thread fingers through Law’s hair. “Shh.” Tentative, unsure.  _

“Trafalgar,” he mutters to himself, casting a glance to the cards splayed over the vanity. 

Law wakes the next day with blood under his nails and straw in his hair, golden and wiry amongst black locks. Penguin is slumped over his legs, Shachi fit snugly around him. His head pounds, and he leans back to feel the weight of Bepo at his back, a firm pressure to ease the ache. 

There’s empty mugs of coffee scattered around the room, seemingly something to chase the flickering light behind Law’s eyes, the muted orchestrals and radial colors pooling in the space behind his liquid brain. Paper, too, scattered haphazardly in handwriting that’s his but scrawled with words he can’t quite read. Other handwriting, too, that of his crewmates, and he furrows his brow.

“Captain?” from under him with a little shuffle, all too loud for his fragile head and the snores of their crewmates around him. He shushes him, bringing up tattooed fingers to massage his temples.

“Sorry,” he mutters, a notch quieter than the last phrase. “Are you okay?”

Something in that wounds Law’s pride a little, but he trusts Bepo. “Yeah, that was fine.” 

“Okay, good, because you--” Law shushes him again, still bleary eyed. Bepo hums a little and places a warm paw on his shoulder. 

* * *

Sometime in the future, somewhere a little further down the Grand Line, Law ducks into a store with a wide awning, hung lush with dried herbs and displaying shelves of odd glassware. Hawkins slinks through the narrow halls of the Polar Tang and seats himself on a wooden chair beside Law’s desk. He waits. 

**Author's Note:**

> yguhbsdkuvhdf Don't know where this one came from but like. Law coke addict real. 
> 
> Please leave a comment or something if you enjoyed or anything else! Don't know what kinda niche audience this is for but. hey, lol. 
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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